


The One Where They're Girls and Cameron Can't Stand It

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Genderfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-27
Updated: 2007-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson needs a better bra; Cameron is on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where They're Girls and Cameron Can't Stand It

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline** : Follows [The One Where They're Girls](http://community.livejournal.com/parrotfic/12298.html) by [](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/profile)[**thedeadparrot**](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/)and [The One Where They're Girls, and Make the Most of It](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/217968.html) by [](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/profile)[**queenzulu**](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/). Starts same day as [](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/profile)[**leiascully**](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/)'s [The One Where They're Girls and Cuddy Comes In](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/493621.html).
> 
> It's [](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/profile)[**thedeadparrot**](http://thedeadparrot.livejournal.com/)'s crackverse; I'm just playing in it. Beta by the awesome [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/); cheerleading by the equally great [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/).

It’s been two weeks since the weird whatever hit the hospital, and Cameron can’t stand it any more. She’s going batshit insane, and if she doesn’t stick her dick in something in the next twelve hours, she’s afraid she will literally explode.

She’d always considered herself to have a strong libido, above average even. Not a nympho, no, but enjoying sex fully and maintaining a healthy fantasy life. But that felt like a flickering candle compared to the inferno that’s been raging in her ever since she became a man. How guys have these thoughts running through their heads _every_ _single_ minute and still function, she has absolutely no idea.

Not only is her appetite now voracious, it’s got very little discrimination. The fantasies that run through her head involve her in her old body and men – George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, Matt Damon, with the occasional drop-in by Chase or House. When she’s walking around the hospital, on the other hand, her eyes seem to follow _everyone_. Brenda looks quite attractive, if a bit scary, as a man, but Marco’s been turning her head, too. Chase, of course, is drop-dead gorgeous, with hair that makes other women completely catty. (Even women who as men wouldn’t have given a second thought to another person’s hair. It’s odd.) Foreman’s got an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, and his attitude just screams of raunch. And then there’s House, whose mind she’s always found sexy, in his fuck-me blouses and skirts with the slits dangerously high up his left leg.

Even with twice-daily trips to the men’s room for alone time, she’s finding it very difficult to make it through the day in the Diagnostics office.

Escaping to the hallway provides no relief at all, because invariably she’ll run into the one person who’s been consuming her the most: Wilson. Silky hair, full eyelashes, a complexion women pay thousands of dollars trying to recreate. Long legs, curvy hips... and a rack and a fucking half. Jesus Christ who she doesn’t believe in! She’s never in her life been attracted to breasts, but Wilson’s are full and creamy and succulent.

She’s almost glad that he doesn’t seem to know how to pick out a bra. If his bust was properly supported, she probably wouldn’t be able to keep her tongue in her head.

With these thoughts going through her mind, _again_ , she doesn’t pay much attention to her surroundings as she turns the corner near the Clinic. The body crashing into her chest – and the fact that the other person goes down in the collision, not her – is startling. She looks down, and it’s Wilson, sprawled, covered in papers. She extends a hand down to help him up, and tries not to notice how high his skirt is hiked up.

“Thanks,” he says when she’s got him on his feet, with most of his papers returned to him. He sighs, and the heave of his chest stops her breath for a moment. “So glad it’s Friday; I can’t wait to get out of here,” he continues. “I’ve _got_ to go shopping. None of the clothes I picked out seem to fit right.”

He tugs at his blouse, exposing a bit of collarbone, and she gives her body a very stern talking-to. She’s about to make a suggestion, but it’s just going to be a friendly one. No sexual organs anywhere in her body should get any ideas from it. _Especially you, penis, you bastard. Don’t give the game away and fuck this up for me._

“You know,” Cameron says, as casually as she can manage, “I think your clothes are just fine for your figure. But it all starts with undergarments. You’d be surprised how much a great-fitting bra is the foundation for an entire outfit.”

Wilson ducks his head and looks at her shyly. “Really?” he breathes, and she’d swear he was batting his eyelashes at her if she wasn’t so completely captivated by the curve of his lips.

“And your makeup,” she continues, “is very nice, but a tweak to some of the shades you use would highlight your best features even more.” Soft eyes, high cheekbones, rosebud lips – he really is a cosmetician’s dream.

“Would you –” he asks tentatively, and she takes a step toward him. With their new heights, she’s an inch or two taller than Wilson, but he somehow makes her feel like a titan. “Are you free tonight? Would you be willing to come with me, show me the ropes?”

She smiles, trying to keep it from looking predatory. From the light blush that appears on Wilson’s cheeks, she’s not sure she succeeded. “I’d love to,” she replies.

* * *

After a quick bite to eat that evening, they decide to go to Macy’s in Lawrenceville. She’d rather take him to Nordstrom, but that’s over twice as far away. Actually, she’d _really_ rather take him to a boutique she knows in Manhattan, with exemplary service and spacious private dressing rooms – her thoughts turn to just how private those rooms are, and she has to yank her mind back on topic – but Macy’s will be fine.

They browse through the lingerie by themselves for a while, and she quietly runs Wilson through the basics: underwire, support, fabrics, styles, colors, and cuts. When she points out front-close vs. back-close, he laughs that he has a thorough understanding of the fastenings. She estimates his size by sight as a 34C, ignores the impulse to ask if she can feel him up “to confirm,” and helps him choose several to try.

A very matronly salesclerk gathers Wilson up and escorts him to the dressing room. Cameron waits patiently, flipping through the racks and smiling to the other shoppers amiably. They edge away from her, and she’s perturbed until she remembers she’s a man now. A man looking happy and at home in the lingerie section: pervy. She affects a look of impatient near-disgust, and the next few women who breeze by ignore her completely.

Apparently her eye for Wilson’s size was pretty good, because the only extra bra the salesclerk comes out to get is a lacy red half-cup. The color would look outstanding against Wilson’s skin, and a jolt of heat races through her. She shifts her hips, widening her stance a bit.

A few moments later, the salesclerk carries an armful of bras toward the register. Wilson trails behind her, smiling shyly when he spots Cameron. “You’re wearing one of the new bras, aren’t you?” she asks. “Because that top looks fantastic on you now.”

His shoulders straighten, and that pushes those magnificent breasts closer to her. She sucks in a breath as quietly as she can, and shifts again. Wilson smiles as if he knows a secret, and she figures he probably does.

“This was definitely a good idea,” he says. “The saleslady complained bitterly about the bra I had on. I didn’t tell her that I’d just bought a duplicate of the one House picked out, without even really trying it on. It looked good on House.”

She shakes her head, and guides him toward the register with a hand on the small of his back. “That won’t do. House is definitely smaller than you.”

“Was when we were in our old bodies, too,” he whispers in her ear, his chest lightly grazing against her side, and she’s starting to feel desperate to get him out of here.

His credit card is in her hand for some reason, and she absentmindedly hands it to the salesclerk. “Don’t _you_ have a generous boyfriend,” says the woman to Wilson, and he tucks himself closer to Cameron and freakin’ _giggles_. The vibration sings along her nerves, and her dick starts to scream. Only by thinking of their most disgusting patients can she will it back down.

Wilson signs the receipt when the salesclerk is ducked behind the counter, grabbing a bag. He then thrusts it toward her to hand back. Given her distraction, she’s confused, until she realizes that she looks more like a “James” than Wilson does at this point.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” Wilson coos, playing up the boyfriend angle. “Thank you so much.”

It’s an act, Cameron knows, but she’s never felt so _strong_ , so protective. She looks at the red of Wilson’s lips and the curves of his body and suddenly feels that she’d do battle with anything that even hinted of a threat to his safety. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, she tugs him closer.

“You deserve it,” she says, not holding back the fire she feels, and kisses him just below the ear. His head tilts ever so slightly, and she feels him holding in a breath. She’s angling for another kiss, a little lower down his neck, when the salesclerk tuts. Or maybe it’s more of a cluck, but whatever it is, it breaks the mood a bit.

Cameron hands back the receipt and grabs the bag. She and Wilson exit the store grinning and laughing like they’ve just gotten away with something – but Cameron has no clue what it was.

They’re halfway back to Princeton before Cameron realizes they never shopped for makeup. She looks over at Wilson, who smiles at her and then looks away, out the window, smoothing his skirt reflexively. She decides his makeup’s fine, and presses down harder on the gas.

***

He’s surprisingly coy when she asks him up for a drink – OK, he’s in a woman’s body, but this is _Wilson_ , for Pete’s sake – but agrees to it.

They have some wine, and a few laughs – House’s obsession with his own breasts is always amusing to discuss – and Wilson seems to be melting into her couch. “So,” he says during a gentle lull in the conversation, “being the expert, do you really think this bra fits me well?” He twists and turns to give her different angles on his torso, and she doesn’t care whether he’s flirting consciously or subconsciously, because there’s no way she’s giving this opportunity up.

“Hmm,” she says, stroking her jaw. “It _seems_ OK, but I can only say for sure if I actually look at it.”

“Meaning my top has to come off. Well, I do want a perfect fit, so I guess that’s what I need to do.” He tries to be smooth taking the blouse off, but the one pearl button flummoxes him a bit.

“Let me,” she says, and flicks it open. The shirt falls immediately, and Wilson’s there, on her couch, in the red half-cup bra, and it’s even better than she imagined it to be.

She can barely hear his question, “Does it fit?” through the rushing-blood sound in her ears. A guy friend in college had mentioned blood racing from the head to the penis, and she’d dismissed him as an exaggerating fool. She’ll have to find him and apologize as soon as she gains back the use of the higher functions of her brain.

“Perfectly,” she manages to reply.

“As long as we’re exchanging fashion tips,” Wilson says, and moves ever so slightly closer toward her, “I should tell you that those slacks are a bit tight on you.”

This little lance to her pride snaps her out of her fascination for a moment. “I think my butt looks good in these pants,” she protests.

Wilson shifts substantially closer, his breasts leading the way, and Cameron is mesmerized again. “I was thinking more about the front,” Wilson whispers, and runs his tongue gently along her lips.

That’s it, the inferno bursts loose, and she feels a kinship to the earliest cavemen as she grasps Wilson roughly and presses him to her. She’s got to have him, she can’t wait, and she kisses him like she wants to own him, because she _does_.

His lips are amazingly soft, his tongue strong but light. She pushes her tongue past his easily and eagerly, wanting to taste every part of his mouth.

All the while, his breasts are heaving against her, and the skin of his back is smooth under her hands. She brings one hand up into his glorious hair and presses against his skull, wanting him closer, needing him closer.

They kiss fiercely like that for some unknown amount of time, and he’s writhing in her lap, and she’s on _fire_. Consumed by the flames, all she can do is keep grabbing and pressing, as if he’s the safety blanket that could keep this all under control.

She notices that her balls feel heavy, and that can’t be good. Not if she wants to keep this going until she gets some actual pussy.

Did she just think that?

Wilson must be psychic, because he picks that moment to pull away a bit. “You have a bed around here somewhere?”

“Oh yes,” she breathes. “But I need a minute. I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to walk with this thing” – she gestures down to her lap – “without overbalancing and falling over.”

Wilson laughs and gets up. His shoes were kicked off long ago, and he’s not wearing hose (none of the new women of Princeton-Plainsboro wear hose). With just a zipper undone and a quick wiggle of his hips, he’s standing in her living room in the bra and a pair of red satin panties that are revealed, when he turns around, to be a thong. Cameron groans and grabs for him, wanting to rub her tongue across that ass, but he slips away.

He locates her bedroom with no problem, as she discovers when she walks through the doorway to find him on his back in the middle of the bed, snuggling one of her pillows. She’s immediately insanely jealous of the pillow. In three quick strides (longer legs have their advantages) she reaches the bed and grabs the offender off Wilson, and then oh God, her brain stops.

He’s naked under there, his pink nipples at hard peaks, and a glint of moisture on the small patch of his pubic hair. “Nice wax job,” she comments breathlessly.

“Thanks,” he replies, before arching his hips once and opening his legs wider. The lips of his vagina slide open as well, and she can _smell_ him. As a woman, her own scent never did a thing for her – she would never let a boyfriend kiss her after cunnilingus, in fact. But there must be some hormones or pheromones or something that come with being a man, because she’s consumed with the craving to dive between his legs and take all that juice onto her tongue. It would taste like honey, like nectar, she’s sure.

She leans forward to live this new fantasy when he suddenly pulls away and sits up. She looks at him, eyes wide, and he leans over and pushes her firmly back. “Clothes off,” he purrs. Her fingers can’t move fast enough.

By the time she looks up from her last step – lowering her pants and boxers to the floor and kicking them off – he’s on his back again, reclining, legs spread. There’s a swelling in her chest, and she feels ten feet tall, the warrior who has conquered and is ready to take his prize.

In sliding over his body, she moves slower than she wants to, but can tell from his picked-up breathing that it’s the perfect pace for him. Then they’re skin-to-skin from head to toe, and her hands are cupping his face, thumbs running across those beautiful cheekbones. She kisses him slow and deep, and he responds so sweetly. His arms are around her shoulders, and his hands are caressing her back, and if it weren’t for the insistent, urgent demands of her son-of-a-bitch penis, she could stay like this for hours.

Wilson feels her need again – although this time she’s certain it’s not through psychic powers – and with a small sigh pulls away from her lips. “Condom?” he asks. She curses her lack of foresight, which is now causing her to have to pull away from him.

It’s a short trip to the bedside table, but apparently Wilson is feeling the loss too, because he follows her over. He kisses her shoulder blades and back gently as she leans over to reach into the drawer. When she fumbles trying to open the wrapper, Wilson takes it from her and tears it open with his teeth. She’s tempted to ruin the condom just so she can watch him do that again, but then he reaches down and rolls the condom on her.

It’s not a nice feeling, not particularly sexy, but it reminds her of what she’s about to do, and _that_ drives the heat higher.

She puts her hand down and touches him, tests to see if he’s ready. He’s wetter than she ever remembers being, and when her finger accidentally slips inside him, he moans.

Then she’s pressing him down onto the bed, and pressing her cock into his waiting pussy, and oh holy Hell. She had this one boyfriend whose first thrust would invariably be a rough jamming, and she hated it. At this moment, though, she finally understands the impulse. It’s only through concentrated willpower that she refrains from shoving in balls-deep.

She takes a minute to look at Wilson’s face, expecting to see the bliss she always feels when she’s being filled. Instead, she sees a grimace. Her heart sinks and she asks gently, “What?”

Wilson starts to laugh, and she feels her ego deflate. (Not her penis. That’s still demanding that she get a move on, this instant.) “What?” she asks again, this time with far less gentleness and far more hurt.

He grabs her face, kisses her, and works to stifle his laughter. “It’s OK, hon, it’s OK. Not anything you did. It’s that I haven’t been a virgin for -” He pauses, and moves his lips as if he’s counting. “Twenty years now. So it took me by surprise that in this body, I apparently am. Was.”

“So I hurt you? I’m sorry.” Cameron wonders if he’ll want to stop. She hopes to hell not, because she thinks her genitals will stage a mutiny.

He kisses her again, draws her eyes to his. “It doesn’t hurt much. Let’s keep going, and I’m sure the pain will go away.”

Even though it’s the last thing in the world she wants to do, she hesitates. He deserves one more chance to back out.

“Could you fuck me, please?” he murmurs into her ear. “If you stop now, that’s one hell of a tease you put me through all evening.”

Green flag means go. She starts thrusting, slowly and shallowly at first, and then harder and faster as Wilson’s moans and cries get louder. She knows she should be massaging his clit with her hand, but every ounce of strength she has is going into holding herself so as not to crush Wilson, not coming in the next second, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

Not only is all her blood in her penis, all her nerves have migrated there as well. It’s impossible to focus on anything other than the delicious friction of her dick sliding in and out, in and out.

She feels a hand pressing between her body and Wilson’s, sliding with each of her thrusts. And the thought that Wilson is bringing himself off as she fucks him is the end. That’s it, game’s over, and her whole body is heaving, seizing, and holy _fuck_ , all the energy of the universe just shot out the end of her penis.

Conduit to the gods is exhausting. She collapses down on Wilson, barely noticing that his hand is still moving. “Want to finish,” he pants.

She knocks his hand away and finds his clit with her thumb. She simultaneously kisses him, presses up with her dick (enough hardness still there, for at least a minute more), and rubs circles with her thumb. He twitches against her and shudders and then lays still.

She slides off to the side and manages to whisper, “Good night, baby,” before falling into sleep, her head on Wilson’s shoulder and her hand still cupping his pussy. She doesn’t feel him roll the condom off her and pull the covers around them.

When she wakes up, she’s flat on her back, right arm firmly curled around Wilson, whose head is now on her chest. She feels him stir, his hair tickling her. He turns his head, looks up at her, and smiles sleepily. The urge to protect comes back full force, and she wonders if this is what the testosterone-fueled version of being in love feels like.

She leans down and kisses him, a quick peck. “Sorry about my breath. I should go brush my teeth.”

“Hold off on that,” he replies. “I’ve got another idea of what to do with our mouths.” He trails kisses down her abdomen as he heads farther south. Cameron decides she could get very used to waking up this way each morning.

***

Monday at lunchtime, Wilson’s sitting alone in the cafeteria, reading an article and picking at a salad, when House plops down in the chair next to him.

“Scored with Cuddy,” House reports as he eyes Wilson’s salad. He snorts at it, presumably because it doesn’t have meat or candy in it.

“Mazel tov,” Wilson replies. His eyes are still on the article.

“I think I’ve got her talked into a threesome. You in?”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “House, she’s a _guy_ now. I’m sure you really had to twist her arm to get her agree to sleep with two hot babes.” He rolls his eyes again at House’s grin. “Yes, I called you a hot babe; get over it. But it’s moot because I can’t be in a threesome with you and Cuddy anyway.”

House scoffs. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t think my fiancé would appreciate it at all.”

Wilson smirks at the gobsmacked expression House is sporting and waves his ring in House’s face. It’s a nice rock – carat and a half.

“Christ, Wilson, I thought you were over the posting the bans thing. And who the hell are you engaged to?”

With impeccable timing, Cameron walks up to the table and sets down her tray. “Hi, baby,” she says, sliding a hand onto Wilson’s neck. He smiles broadly at her and tilts his head up to get her kiss.

House groans, “God,” and jams his cane into Wilson’s calf.

“Ow!” He smacks House on the arm, and then holds Cameron back from smacking House as well. “It’s OK, baby,” he murmurs, putting a hand on her knee. She settles back into her seat, and after one last glare at House, turns to her hamburger.

“ _Baby_ ,” House sneers. “Are you determined to be _every_ cliche in the book? Marries the first man he sleeps with isn’t enough?”

“Jealous,” Wilson sing-songs, and wipes a small blob of ketchup off Cameron’s face. She grunts in thanks, but her attention’s on the article Wilson had been reading. He cedes it to her and turns back toward House.

“Guess you’re over the ‘new men are icky’ thing then.”

Wilson sighs contentedly and wiggles a bit as Cameron absently strokes his thigh. “Yep.”

House sits up abruptly and leans into Wilson’s face. “Then why won’t you do the threesome with Cuddy?”

“Hey!” Cameron snaps, and pokes a finger into House’s shoulder. “That’s _my_ fiancée you’re talking to.”

House leans around Wilson and checks out Cameron slowly and appraisingly. “That’s quite the jab you’ve got there, Cammy, my girl. Anything else you enjoy poking into people?”

“Shut up, House,” Cameron mumbles. Wilson slips an arm around her shoulders and leans into her, and she cheers up a smidgen.

House gets up from his chair and leans across the table toward Cameron. Wilson can tell he has no bra on at all, and he knows Cameron’s got to be getting an eyeful.

“I’m just saying that a threesome turns into a foursome so very, very easily.”

Cameron’s eyes widen and there’s a tinge of redness to her ears. Wilson ought to be feeling jealous that House is so blatantly hitting on his fiancé, but truth be told, he isn’t. Cameron has to be willing in order for them to have the foursome. And Wilson has wondered what Cuddy’s packing since Day One.


End file.
